


a neo blue we've never seen before

by poika



Category: Free!
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Near Future, Romance, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poika/pseuds/poika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walk to the station is quiet and subdued, Makoto lifting his face into the fresh air and Haru looking toward the darkened skyline, lost in thought. A gentle night breeze brushes across them and Makoto’s glad for Haru’s warmth beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a neo blue we've never seen before

**Author's Note:**

> hi so i just made this account right now to post this fic and i seriously havent written anything in ages much less for this fandom and im nervous so be gentle (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

_The usual in 20?_

The simple text in Makoto’s hands sends a warm rush across his skin and he replies quickly, juggling his textbooks into his satchel and rushing out of the lecture hall with the rest of the bustling crowd. The gust of air that hits him is refreshing after a solid nine-to-five that’s left Makoto desperate for some miso and a day off tomorrow and he kind of contemplates skipping _just this once_. Makoto daydreams about it for a while as he lets his feet take him through the route to the ramen joint, a path that’s second nature by this point. Dusk is just settling across the city, casting the roads in a hazy pink glow and Makoto watches as small storefront shops pull down their shutters and flip their signs, turning in for the day. He has no idea who they are, probably never will, and it’s still a weird thing to him; being such a small person in such a big city. It’s been months since he’d settled in Tokyo and he figures some things will always stay the same no matter how much time passes, no matter where he goes. He doesn’t mind, though. The change is strange and exciting and, anyway, it’s kind of comforting. To know that he’s still connected to that small town keeps him grounded. Keeps him a little bit more sane some days.  
  
Approaching the diner, Makoto sees a familiar crop of hair and a crisp white jacket leaning against a vacant light post. He’s fiddling on his phone and probably pretending to text someone again, just so he doesn’t have to make awkward eye contact with strangers. That same warmth shoots through Makoto again at the sight and he calls out.  
  
“Haru!”  
  
Haru’s head whips up and he turns to meet Makoto halfway, shuffling to his side and sticking close. He looks just a little bit worse for wear, hair damp and eyes glassy, but he looks pleased. Looks happy. They waste no time to leave the hustle and bustle of the street, finding their usual seats at the end of the timber bench and sighing in relief as they drop the weight of their bags off their shoulders and onto the floor. An employee comes to take their orders and Makoto thinks if this was Iwatobi, they’d know who they were by now, they’d know their orders and how they liked it. But Makoto doubted the people here remembered at all, even a small business like this. Not in this city with this many people. Not that he minded. Again, just weird. Different.  
  
The prompt arrival of their steaming ramen is a godsend and immediately, simultaneously, their hands wrap around the bowl, the smell of broth and pork heading straight to their stomachs. Makoto quickly gives his thanks for the meal and digs in, Haru following soon after. They get through a quarter of their bowls before they can strike up a decent conversation, the presence of warm food kicking their brains back into gear.  
  
“Argh, I had three lectures right after the other today, I’m beat,” Makoto groans.  
  
“Thursdays _are_ your worst day,” Haru agrees as he idly pours a smattering of soy sauce into his bowl, then Makoto’s. It’s a little late, but appreciated all the same.  
  
 “Yeah, I can’t wait to just get home and _sleep_. Anyway, how was practice? You look tired, too.”  
  
“Alright. Had to work all day on my hip rotations and core movements in my freestyle catch so I don’t overpower my arms as much later on.”  
  
“That does sound tiring. Well, good work today anyway.”  
  
“Mn, you too.”  
  
They eat and chat for a while and it’s starting to get a little bit late already and Makoto will probably be way too tired to try studying when he gets home, so he scrambles through his bag for his textbook. He shyly hands it to Haru under the pretense of ‘ _I really need to know this stuff by tomorrow’s lecture and you know I work a lot better with other people_ ’ and asks for a quiz, promising that it’s just quick basics. Haru doesn’t seem to mind either way, flipping to a page under Makoto’s instructions and skimming through it.  
  
“Alright, name the 6 principles of learning.” Haru holds the textbook close to his chest with one hand, using the other to dig a fish cake out of his ramen.  
  
“Erm, supportive and productive environment, promoting independence and self-motivation…” spurred on by Haru’s reassuring nods, Makoto continues, “helping develop higher thinking and application skills? And, um…supportive and productive environment?”  
  
“You already said that one.”  
  
“Okay, okay, I don’t know them. Tell me?”  
  
“You missed assessment practices, students’ needs, interests and backgrounds and connecting strongly with communities and practice beyond the class.”  
  
“Ah…Well, next time, okay? I’ll get it for sure.”  
  
“Mn, I know you will.”  
  
Makoto feels his face flush at Haru’s words. Ever since coming back from Australia all those months ago, Haru’s been changing. Of course, he still spends hours in the bathtub, eats excessive and unnecessary amounts of mackerel and wears his jammers under his clothes like its normal, but Makoto’s sure he’s never seen Haru smile so much. Never seen him so expressive, reading over Makoto’s notes with a light frown and a scrunch in his mouth, snickering, tipsy, after they down a few bottles of Sapporo they got from a dodgy vending machine and scowling, unmoving on Makoto’s couch as he complains about his coach and how he’s ‘ _probably the devil’_. He’s starting to come out of the shell he’s kept himself sheltered in for too long and every time that case cracks, breaks a little more, it sets a fire in Makoto, sends his heart pounding. He can’t keep up. He can’t keep up, but he thinks it’s beautiful. He thinks Haru is beautiful. He’s _happy_ and Makoto’s sure that as long as that stays the same, he really couldn’t ask for anything more.  
  
“Oi, Makoto. You said you wanted to study, didn’t you? Stop daydreaming – and stop blushing and looking at me!” he hisses, but Makoto can see redness on his cheeks too, even when he angles his face toward his bowl. He’d think it cute if he weren’t so embarrassed.  
  
“Haru! Why are you blushing? Don’t blush when I do, you’ll make me blush more!” Makoto cries, hiding his face in his hands, partly to _actually_ hide, but mostly to stifle the smile that tugged at his lips, too. This kind of thing was happening more often lately. Not the teasing, since Haru had probably  always gotten a cruel kick out of seeing Makoto sputter and stumble over his words, but rather the weird atmosphere of it all, the way it came out hesitant and kind of flirty. At first, Makoto had assumed they were just riding on a high from nationals, then feeling excited from their big move, then enjoying feeling older and at that point the excuses had started to run out. It wasn’t a whim. This was them now. They stood closer, touched more, talked differently.  
  
“Don’t blush in the first place, idiot.” Haru looks up from his ramen now and glances at Makoto, sighing when he sees he’s still being watched. But his tell-tale half smile still shows up anyway as he looks down at the page and asks Makoto to list the key principles of swimming education plans.  
  


The walk to the station is quiet and subdued, Makoto lifting his face into the fresh air and Haru looking toward the darkened skyline, lost in thought. A gentle night breeze brushes across them and Makoto’s glad for Haru’s warmth beside him, through his thin flannel shirt. He shifts closer to that warmth, arms touching and fingers brushing as they walk. Haru doesn’t seem to mind the invasion of space and continues daydreaming through the small touches, pressing his weight back onto Makoto.  
  
As they approach the station, Makoto feels a small tug at his finger and hurriedly glances down at the touch, expecting a bug or a small animal or anything else. Definitely not Haru’s pinky wrapped gently around his, barely there but enough there to be _there_. Makoto balks, shocks shooting up through his arm at the feeling. His mouth is gaping open to say something, _anything_ to Haru. _What are you doing? Are you okay? Are you feeling what I’m feeling right now?_ But the words won’t build up on his tongue, can only hang in his gut and give him an ache. He looks to Haru for some sort of explanation, something to stop him from feeling so nervous, but is met with Haru staring at that same spot in the sky with unnatural determination, his face flaming red. _He’s blushing! I’ve never seen him blush so much._ More words that he tries to say, can’t say. He can only retaliate with a matching shade of red to his own cheeks. It occurs to Makoto that he should probably be more cool about this kind of stuff – he’s an adult now, after all. An adult. Very mature. He’s kind of holding his best friend’s hand and it’s no big deal. The flutter in his chest is nothing. Nothing weird was going on. It is fine. He is fine.  
  
But…the weirdest part about all this is probably that it doesn’t feel weird at all. The touch of Haru’s skin feels normal and the way it curls around his is grounding and gentle and familiar. But it makes Makoto nervous. What were they? Were they friends? Were they more? More, probably. It _feels_ like more, even for them. But it also feels right; it feels natural to walk closer than they did yesterday, to fall asleep together after a movie more often, to lie down on each other’s laps and stroke their hair after a bad week. Their relationship was changing, slowly but surely, and Makoto has no idea what to do about it. But he’s happy.  
  
“Haru, I – ”  
  
“Don’t – don’t say anything,” Haru grinds out, his voice tense and a little shaky. His finger flexes around Makoto’s and Makoto is sure he’d be clenching his jaw right now if he just looked a little closer. It was typical and it was cute. Too cute. Makoto wants to laugh. He wants to laugh and never stop, but mostly he wants to feel this way forever.  
  
“But Haru!” he teases, voice high and tight from the giddy feeling in his chest. “You’re blushing! Like a schoolgirl!”  
  
Haru growls, “We’re gonna miss the train, you shit,” and promptly storms off in the direction of the station, situating himself toward the far end of the platform in spite. Makoto misses the feel of Haru’s hands, but decides it was definitely worth it when he catches up to him and notices the blush still raging on his face. Their train arrives soon after, and they find a seat in the back carriage to settle into. The rush hour had passed a little while ago, so the train is decidedly empty (as empty as it got for Tokyo), save for some stragglers here and there. The humming of the train, the dim lights of the carriage and the press of Haru’s shoulder against his suddenly make Makoto feel a lot more tired and he leans against his friend, closing his eyes against the feeling. He feels Haru tilt his head against the seat above Makoto’s own and reciprocate the touch despite his anger, an action not uncommon for them these days. But it feels different now. Because of one touch. One brush of their fingers.  
  
He feels Haru’s body shift as he yawns near Makoto’s hair and it makes Makoto yawn, too. They both let out a chuckle that’s more like a quick huff of breath and settle close to each other for the rest of the ride. Haru’s land lays limp on the chair beside Makoto’s thigh, palm down and fingers slightly splayed and he’s looking out of the window and at the sky again. It’s probably a nervous habit at this point, Makoto thinks.  
  
With a nervous rhythm pounding his chest, but a resolve more steely than last time, Makoto inches his hand half on top of Haru’s, curling his fingers under themselves a little until they touch the spaces between Haru’s. Haru’s hands are chilly and a little clammy on the parts of his palm Makoto can feel and he thinks it’s perfect. He thinks it’s perfect, the way Haru’s breath hitches and comes out shallow, fogging up the glass he’s now pressed his forehead against. It’s perfect, the way the pad of his thumb twitches against the tip of Makoto’s finger and the way that his hand tightens, closing to a loose fist. And it’s perfect when Haru turns his head to meet Makoto’s gaze, meek and blushing and tired and amazing.  
  
The train begins to slow and Makoto clears his throat, breaking contact with Haru to check the signs outside. It’s his stop; Haru lives a couple more stations down so they usually split ways here. He picks up his bag as their carriage gently jolts to a stop and the doors slide open.  
  
With a squeeze to Haru’s fingers, Makoto gets up. “Text me when you get home safe,” he murmurs.  
  
It’s not that far and they both know it, but Haru still nods anyway. “Yeah, yeah.” He prods Makoto’s shin with his foot and Makoto’s almost too taken to hear the signalling of the doors closing. He yelps and quickly rushes out of the train, breathing heavy and probably for more reasons than one. From where he’s standing, he swears he can see Haru’s shoulders shaking before the train speeds up and zooms off, leaving him breathless in the middle of the platform. With a sigh and the feeling of a stupid smile on his lips, Makoto begins the short walk home. His limbs feel heavy and slow and he doesn’t really mind the extra time it takes to get there, no matter how tired he is. It lets him think about the shape of Haru’s fingers and his parted lips as he breathed against the window.  
  
  
  
Haru texts him sometime during his shower, a simple ‘ _I’m home’_ to which Makoto promptly and stupidly responds ‘ _Welcome home’._ And, obviously, it gives Haru free reign to tease him in an entire conversation about how Makoto would make the perfect wife, about how he takes after his mother more than anyone, probably more. The texts span out well past Makoto’s bed time and way too late for someone who has to get up at 6 tomorrow morning and he makes it very clear to Haru whose fault it is. With angry emoticons and everything.  


_I’ll make it up to you, then. It’s my rest day tomorrow, so I’ll make dinner at yours. We can watch that movie you keep talking about._  


Haru’s response might be the best thing Makoto’s ever seen in his young life. It’s short and it’s sweet and it’s Haru’s way of saying ‘ _This is a date. Go on a date with me’_. At this, it takes Makoto a full two minutes to stop holding his pillow to his chest in a deathly grip and actually respond to the message.

_Sounds great, I get home at 12 :p_

Settling against his sheets to – actually – go to sleep this time, Makoto feels that warmth dance across his skin once again and he finally can put a name to it. He thinks of Haru and he knows.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up at @poika_ on twitter if makoharu is where u at


End file.
